


Screensaver Life

by ConnorRK



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Underage, Incest, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unhealthy Relationships, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27852882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorRK/pseuds/ConnorRK
Summary: “Mr. Alderson told me,” Tyrell says, smiling slightly, as if amused by Elliot’s confusion. “No need to worry, a little nepotism never hurt the company. Not when you’ve more than earned this. If anything, you’re probably the best thing to happen to E Corp since your father became CTO.”(Or, Edward Alderson never died. Elliot never escaped.)
Relationships: Edward Alderson/Elliot Alderson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37





	Screensaver Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Pepper's fault. My cohort in Mr. Robot horniness. Pepper's idea therefore Pepper's fault.
> 
> Please look at Pepper's gorgeous art, as seen below and on twitter [ here ](https://twitter.com/neuralen/status/1334585447125757954?s=21). God I die looking at it!! It's just perfect and I'm so grateful sob. There's also new cover art for my other Mr. Robot fic, [Moonlit Ghost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27482629), also by Pepper, so please go check it out too!

They meet for lunch every, except the days when one of them has a meeting, usually Edward, and can’t get out of it. On those days, his dad sends him a text, an apology, far too sincere and guilty for a single missed meal out of thousands. It makes Elliot smile anyways.

Their lunches usually consist of Dad telling Elliot about whatever project he’s working on, asking about Elliot’s day and his own work, double checking if Elliot took his medication that morning, making plans for the weekend, and knocking their knees under the table. It’s nice. It’s a spot of brightness in an otherwise monotonous day.

On the days when they don’t meet for lunch, Elliot eats alone in the cafe on the fourth floor of E Corp’s headquarters. He works on his phone, reading over reports and investigating possible threats to their cyber security while he eats a bland turkey sandwich and a bag of kettle chips. He barely tastes them. His foot bounces under the table. When he’s done, he goes back to his desk, though there’s still another thirty-five minutes of lunch.

His coworkers talk at him, all day. Questions, updates, chitchat, small talk. It washes over him. He doesn’t know how to respond. Brett just got back from vacation, you should really see the photos, Elliot! _Okay._ Cheryl is having her baby soon, you know what that means—we’ll be picking up the slack. _Yeah._ Did you hear about the changes they want us to make before next month? It’s insane, we’ve only got a week until September. _Uh-huh._ Wake the fuck up, Elliot! _Sure. Wait-_ I met this guy on a dating app last night, and we hit it off so well. He invited me over for dinner tomorrow night, I think I might go, cause he’s so cute. Do you think it’s too fast? _No._

It washes over Elliot. Sometimes he wonders why he took this job. His fingers numb themselves on the keyboard. He wants to get out of here. He feels naked at his desk, anxiety thrumming through his hands and legs. He wonders what Dad is doing. If he’s done with his meeting yet, if he’ll be done by tonight.

He wishes he could talk to Angela. Text or call, though he doesn’t know what he would say. Maybe just listen to her talk, distract him from the pulse in his temples.

He can’t, of course. She hasn’t talked to him since she was fired last year. Negligence in case management, but she’d come to him, told him something else. Something he’d denied, because it just didn’t make sense.

“You know I didn’t mishandle anything, Elliot. I’ve gotten near-perfect reviews three years in a row, I can’t believe they’d think so little of me,” she’d huffed, pacing back and forth in front of the park bench Elliot had been seated on.

“Maybe I can talk to Simmons, get him to look through it again,” Elliot said. It was unfair that they were firing her. She was one of the hardest workers in E Corp—too hard, but he wouldn’t tell her that, she wouldn’t want to hear it—and one small slip-up shouldn’t have ended like this.

Angela whirled to face Elliot, face stony with anger. “It’s not Simmons, Elliot! It’s your dad,” she spat. “He said some crazy things to me a month ago.”

It caught Elliot off guard, and he looked up at her, unable to make his mouth move for a long moment. “What? What kind of crazy stuff?” Why would his dad be involved in Angela’s dismissal? He liked her, they’d been friends since they were children.

Even as Elliot thought it, disquiet shivered down his spine.

“I don’t know. He was saying I shouldn’t—hold my breath for you.” The anger didn’t leave her face, but her shoulders slumped, and she sat down heavily next to him. “He said I wasn’t good for you. That I should just stop talking to you, if I knew what was good for me.”

“What?”

“Real crazy stuff. God, Elliot, he basically threatened me. I got so mad, but I just ignored him. I didn’t think he’d actually do anything. I thought he was just being overprotective!” Her hair fell about her in a pale curtain as she put her head in her hands.

“He wouldn’t say that,” he said, staring, but a part of him laughed derisively at himself. A part that sounded a lot like his dad.

_Don’t tell me you really believe that._

“He did, Elliot,” Angela said, straightening, brows furrowed as she met his eyes. “He said that stuff. I know he’s behind this, they wouldn’t just fire me like this for no reason.”

“No, no, he wouldn’t do that. He can be—” _possessive_ “—a dick, but he wouldn’t get you fired.”

“Elliot, you’re not listening to me. He said that to my face, he doesn’t want me around you. He’s not right. Who does that to their son’s friends?”

But Elliot shook his head, denied her words until she shouted at him and stormed off. He wanted to go after her, but he couldn’t stomach the accusations she was making. Instead, he stayed on that park bench until the sun went down. Until the soft yellow sodium lights came on and his phone buzzed impatiently in his pocket with a text from his dad, asking him where he was.

It had been almost a year since, and she never answered any of his texts, never called him back. He stopped, eventually.

He never asked his dad about it either.

As if summoned by the thought, his phone vibrates, the screen lighting up. Elliot grabs it, flicking the message open, already sure of what it’s going to say.

 **Dad  
**Gonna be running late tonight, won't be home until 11. Sorry

Just as he thought. When Dad has a lunch meeting, it usually transforms into an evening dinner with his clients. It’s not an issue, but he can’t deny part of him feels a little disappointed. Edward had made such a big deal out of it this morning. Not that Elliot cares much for celebrations. He prefers when days pass by unnoticed and unremarked on. He hates being singled out by coworkers for things like birthdays and special events, where they inevitably want to hang out afterwards and go get drinks and be social in a way he just can’t relate to or deal with.

But his dad does care, and when his dad cares, it’s different.

Another text message comes through, brightening the screen again.

 **Dad  
**I’ll make it up to you

 _It’s alright,_ he replies, and then sets his phone down and returns to his work. Or his body does, at least. His mind is still on tonight. What he’ll do instead. It’s not like he _needs_ to hang out with his dad, but with the planned evening out the window, he feels aimless.

It sounds pathetic. Dad doesn’t have time to spend with him, so he’s going to mope for the rest of the evening. But no, he has things he can do besides wait for his Dad to finish with his meetings. He has side projects he’s been meaning to get to, things he just hasn’t had the time for with how busy his dad keeps him.

It’ll keep his mind off of what he knows he shouldn’t want to be doing.

He can’t help how empty he feels otherwise.

He forces himself to think about his work. It’s difficult with the disappointed tug in his chest, trying to distract him from the endless security reports and emails from his coworkers with inane questions. He finds himself checking his phone again, though he would see the alert instantly if he received another text.

He does it anyways. Tapping the home button to check for a missed call or message. He hates being so neurotic. One missed night shouldn’t have him feeling like this, hands shaking, sweat beading on his forehead.

A tap on the shoulder startles him. He jerks, the phone spinning towards the edge of his desk. A hand catches it before he gets a chance, and Elliot looks up at the offender.

Tyrell Wellick, Vice President of Technology, stands over his desk, holding Elliot’s phone out with a slight smile.

“Bonsoir, Elliot,” he says, as Elliot takes the phone from him slowly.

“Oh. Hey.” He drops his gaze quickly and, not knowing where else to put it, glances at his phone screen again. Only an hour left of work. No messages.

“I was hoping I could congratulate you on your impending promotion. Would you let me treat you to dinner when you get off work?” Tyrell says, sticking a hand in his pocket and shifting his weight to one side, barely leaning against Elliot’s desk.

Elliot glances around at his coworkers, but no one is looking at them, no one catches Tyrell’s words. Still, it makes him uneasy. No one else is supposed to know about this yet.

“Mr. Alderson told me,” Tyrell says, smiling slightly, as if amused by Elliot’s confusion. “No need to worry, a little nepotism never hurt the company. Not when you’ve more than earned this. If anything, you’re probably the best thing to happen to E Corp since your father became CTO.”

Slowly, Elliot looks back to Tyrell, unsure of what he should say. He doesn’t really want to have dinner with the man, but Tyrell is—he wouldn’t consider the man a friend, but Tyrell seems to have some kind of interest in him. He often makes time to say hello to Elliot, point out his hard work, and extend offers of lunch or dinner. Blatant overtures of friendship that Elliot doesn’t know what to do with.

“Uh, thanks,” he says lamely.

He’s sure that Tyrell’s interest in him is solely due to his father’s position in the company. He’s found the man’s various social media profiles and taken the time to hack what he can, to see if there’s more. But Tyrell takes his own security seriously—as VP of Technology, it shouldn’t be a surprise, but E Corp’s last VP of Tech had barely understood the difference between an operating system and kernel.

“Of course. Let me take you out, Elliot. There’s actually something I want to discuss with you, and I’m afraid I won’t take no for an answer.” Again Tyrell gives him a smile. It hardly seems to reach his eyes.

He doesn’t want to, in the slightest, and he starts to shake his head. A hand lands on his wrist, and Elliot jumps, jerking away—or trying to. The grip is iron tight, and Tyrell leans down, still with that plastic smile stretching his mouth. “I insist. I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

His eyes are dark, empty. Elliot’s pulse races, and he swallows thickly, trying to keep his breathing under control. After a minute, he nods.

Tyrell nods too, leaning away, and the tight grip turns to a friendly pat on the back of his hand. Elliot pulls away, but Tyrell doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ll pick you up at five.”

With that, he strides away, not looking back. Elliot follows the man with his eyes, barely aware of himself, holding his hand against his stomach.

That was unusual, even for Tyrell. It must be something important, and it sparks something in the back of Elliot’s mind. Interest, curiosity, anxiety. Does he really want to talk to Elliot about his coding? Or is it something related to his promotion—a secret that wasn’t supposed to be known until next week? Or something security related?

He turns back to his terminal, finally forgetting to look for messages from his father. Focused instead on the point of this meeting and Tyrell’s cryptic words. Something beyond a simple congratulations. Something that couldn’t be talked about except in person—beyond the eyes and ears of vulnerable tech.

The last hour of work is spent mulling over what’s to come, barely processing the words on his screen. One of his coworkers leans over to ask him a question, and Elliot doesn’t remember responding at all, mind working overtime, blazing over possibilities.

When the clock hits five, he’s out of there even faster than usual. Forgoing the five-o’-clock rush to the elevators, he hits the stairs. Pounding down the steps at a quick jog feels good and helps to clear his head.

He exits the front in a flock of people, and doesn’t even need to look around. There’s a black Cadillac at the curb, and a man with a strong jaw standing by the back door. The moment Elliot lays eyes on him, he opens the door, gesturing. Elliot approaches, tugging his backpack higher, feeling like a turtle trying to draw into its shell.

He climbs inside, and Tyrell smiles at him from across the back seat then returns to his phone, fingers moving rapidly over the screen. The man with the jaw shuts the door behind Elliot and goes around, climbing into the drivers side before smoothly pulling out into traffic.

Sitting in silence in the back seat, fingers drumming on his knees, Elliot waits for Tyrell to say something, anything. Outside, the city whizzes past, the afternoon orange and gold. He wishes he hadn’t come. He wishes he was at home, working on his projects, waiting for Dad. Sitting in their apartment, in the dark of the bedroom, lit only by the glow of his laptop.

He looks at the driver, but when the driver glances back at him through the rear view, Elliot looks away. He fiddles with a button on the front of his shirt, repressing a shiver. Trying to ignore the feeling screaming at him that he’s going to be taken to a dark alley somewhere and executed.

What is he doing?

“Can you just tell me what you wanted to talk about?” Elliot finally asks.

Tyrell tucks the phone away, saying, “I know you’re curious, but I have to ask for your patience. We’ll discuss things soon enough.”

It does nothing to ease the sense of danger that’s eating away at Elliot. He wants this to be over with already. Why the mystery?

“I hope you find your new title to your liking. Being the head of the security team will be a challenge, but I’m sure you’ll rise to it.”

It’s an effort for Elliot not to answer in single syllables. “Yeah. I’m looking forward to the… challenge.”

“You’ll be working under me, primarily. It won’t be a huge jump from what you currently do, just more responsibility, leading your team, and we’ll be working closely, of course.”

“Uh-huh,” Elliot mutters. “That sounds great.” He shifts in his seat, fingers curling against his leg.

Tyrell’s lips quirk, amused, and Elliot gets the sensation that Tyrell sees through him, straight to his discomfort. He hates the feeling of being known.

They ride the rest of the way in silence, thankfully. Elliot’s not sure how much more small talk he can take, and he still has the rest of this dinner to get through. He wonders if his dad is out at dinner right now. Chatting up potential clients, charming them and drawing him into his sphere of influence like a black hole.

The restaurant they arrive at is nice—the kind of nice that never fails to make Elliot feel uncomfortable and out of place. Even with Tyrell at his side, leading him in, he knows he’s underdressed and looks more like the waitstaff than their usual clientele. But Tyrell leads them past the maître d' without a word, to a table in the back, blocked in on the right by a screen, tucked in a corner with paper lights hanging above them.

Elliot drops his backpack by his feet and sits, looking down at the menu. He’s been in nice restaurants with his dad of course, but the familiar anxiety is creeping in nonetheless. Something about them makes him uneasy. Is it the hollowness of it all? The waste? People spending exorbitant amounts of money on miniscule amounts of food just to show off for others? He’s sure the wine menu alone costs as much as a month of rent at his apartment. The people dining in this room could probably end hunger in this city by themselves.

He’s one of them, though. By virtue of his dad, he’s a part of this class. Suddenly, that bothers him. Their family grew up lower middle class, until the divorce. Dad had taken him, Mom took Darlene. His dad was barely making ends meet, for years, until he got the big promotion that started him up the corporate ladder at E Corp.

He hasn’t thought about that in years, he realizes suddenly. The worry over rent, the nights without power, spent in his dad’s bed trying to keep warm. Dad’s arms around him, telling him he’s been so good, he deserves a reward, the mouth on his—

“Sir? Are you ready to order?”

Elliot looks up, uncomprehending, until his mind suddenly hits play and the world around him resumes. He looks down at the menu, which he’d been staring at without reading for who knows how long. The tiny words seem to jumble together on the page. 

He mumbles, “I’ll have what he’s having.” He’s sweating under his clothes.

The server takes their menus, and Elliot is left with his shaking hands.

It takes the food arriving—braised lamb with a merlot glaze—for Tyrell to finally say, “I noticed something interesting, and I wanted your opinion on it.” He cuts into the tender meat, juices running out onto the dish.

Elliot sits with his hands in his lap. “Okay.”

“I hope when I tell you what I’m about to tell you, you’ll understand why I rather speak here, alone.” Tyrell takes a bite of his lamb, chewing silently, before continuing. “I came across some files for a project our company is connected to. I hadn’t heard of the project before, so of course I went looking for more.” Tyrell speaks calmly, eyes flicking up to meet Elliot’s. “It seems we have a contract with a Chinese company by the name of Brick. I did a little digging, and this company only has four employees, and its address isn’t on any maps. A shell company, as you can imagine.”

The hairs on the back of Elliot’s neck rise. “That’s strange.”

“Yes.” Tyrell nods, watching Elliot, assessing. "On top of that, we aren’t sending this company payments of any kind. We are, in fact, receiving payments from them. So I began to look through invoices to see what we are being paid for. What are you imagining?”

Elliot’s mind is already racing with the possibilities. “Could be money laundering, but I doubt you would want to talk to me about something like that. So, we’re sending them something. Without an address attached, it can’t be physical goods. Has to be information. Unless… We’re not sending anything at all. In which case, the money is payment for something we will be doing.”

Tyrell smiles as he takes a sip from the delicate wine glass. “Yes. That’s my thought as well. The invoices listed virtual services rendered, nothing concrete. Except, the name of the person who signed them. Mr. Alderson.”

The blunt, bitten ends of his fingers dig into his palms painfully. He’s walked into a trap of some kind, a honeypot, all but confirming his Dad is involved in something suspicious. His heart stutters in his chest. “You think my dad… is involved with something illegal?”

“It may not be illegal, of course,” Tyrell says, quirking an eyebrow. “But it’s certainly unusual. And I get the impression you weren’t aware of this, either.”

“E Corp has a lot of clients in China. I don’t…” Elliot shakes his head.

“While that’s true, it’s unusual for our CTO to personally sign invoices. Wouldn’t you say?”

It’s very unusual. Edward doesn’t shy away from work, but signing invoices is far from his normal purview, especially invoices for a shell company in China. Something is wrong here, and he shifts uncomfortably.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks, nervous and curious all at once. “If you think he’s up to something, shouldn’t you want to keep me out of it? I mean, what if I decide to tell him?”

“Because, Elliot.” Tyrell sets his utensils down, wiping his still-clean hands on a cloth before lacing them together on the table in front of him. “It’s been brought to my attention that there’s a certain closeness between you two.”

The way he says it has Elliot tensing in his seat. He sits up straight, trying not to look around, trying not to show how on edge he is. He finds his phone in the pocket of his hoodie, fingers curling around it. “What do you mean.” His voice is flat.

“Mr. Alderson doesn’t care much for material wealth. He has it, but I don’t think he’d even notice if he lost it. You, on the other hand.” Tyrell’s cheek twitches. “He’d do anything to keep you, wouldn’t he? He keeps you close, keeps you sedated. He keeps you in a job he gave you. Keeps you in an apartment he pays for. Keeps you alone.”

It feels like the breath is knocked out of him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. You know he gave the order to have Simmons fire your friend Angela, don’t you.” It’s not a question, and Elliot doesn’t say anything. “You know he’s giving you this promotion to cement your place in the company.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elliot says, voice strained. Is it so obvious? Could Angela see it, too? What his dad was doing? No, if she suspected something like that she wouldn’t have left Elliot alone, she’s not the type. But he hasn’t had contact with her in a year. Cold sweat trickles down his back. He never asked his dad if it was true. He never needed to. He already knew.

“Elliot, there’s no need to play dumb. I got your message.” Tyrell’s voice takes on a confidential tone. His hands flatten on the table, palm up, as if to show he’s unarmed. “We can be of great use to each other. I can help you get out from under his thumb. You can be your own man, live your own life, instead of the life your father wants for you. All I ask in return, is for you to keep an eye on this enterprise he’s carrying out. Find out what it is, make sure it won’t jeopardize the company.”

“No… I don’t…” Elliot shakes his head, wanting to stand up, to get the fuck out of here. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking for missed messages, as if his dad might be listening. He can’t believe he’s hearing this. This is why Tyrell has been so friendly with him. Trying to find a way to get Elliot on his side, help him spy on his own dad. “I don’t want anything to do with this. I’m not helping you.”

Tyrell sighs, looking down at his meal, as if gathering his thoughts. His gaze flicks across the table, from his wine glass, to Elliot’s own untouched food, to the phone in Elliot’s head. Then, his expression seems to clear, as if reaching an understanding. “Maybe this wasn’t the best place for this after all. Anyone could be monitoring us.”

That’s not even close to the issue, and Elliot stands, voice stuttering as he says, “I’m not going to be part of this. I’m n-not interested.”

He sees diners glancing over at them, and across the room, two men in black suits whispering to each other and watching them. Elliot’s stomach roils and he thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Okay, that’s all right. But just think about it. You don’t have to answer me now.” Tyrell says, leaning back, projecting an air of nonchalance. Elliot turns, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, already walking away. “Just know I’ll be on the lookout for anymore of your messages, Mr. Robot.”

The name almost makes Elliot freeze in place. He forces himself to keep going, instead. He passes the men in black, half-expecting them to reach out and grab him anyways, but the men turn back to their conversation. Elliot exits into the cool city air, heart hammering as if he’d just run a mile.

He legs it down the sidewalk, towards the nearest subway entrance. The name echoes in his ears with each step into the underground. _Mr. Robot. Mr. Robot. Mr. Robot._

How the hell did Tyrell know the name of his dad’s old computer store, and why the hell was he calling Elliot that? In the train car, his knee bounces erratically, hood pulled over his head. What was Tyrell talking about? Why would he be on the lookout for a message from him? Had he confused Elliot for someone else, someone leaving him messages? But then why would he call Elliot _that._

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense.

How long had Tyrell been watching him, to know so much about him and his dad? He even knew that his dad paid for the apartment. He knew…

No, he didn’t know about _that._ No one knew. No one could ever know.

And why would Edward tell Tyrell before the official announcement? No, he must have found out some other way. There’s someone else, there has to be. Elliot glances around the train car—at the passengers playing on their phones, reading books, or staring into space. A few are looking around as well. One looks directly at him.

Elliot looks away, chest tight. No, he’s being paranoid. Shit, what’s wrong with him? He hasn’t felt like this in years, and the realization only ramps his anxiety up. College was the last time. He’d been away from his dad for the first time, working part time, taking classes, living in the dorms. He’d started having paranoid thoughts, and delusions. His roommate had thought he was weird, had confronted Elliot about something—he can’t remember what—and Elliot had flipped. He’d destroyed the room and his dad had come and paid off his roommate and the school so it wouldn’t get out. Elliot had to move back home, cut down on classes, start medication.

He peeks out of the corner of his eyes, and the person who’d looked at him glances over at him again. He looks away, rubbing a hand across his face, sweating beneath his hoodie.

Tyrell was right. Dad did keep Elliot close, but it was only because he cared. He wanted to live together to make sure Elliot was doing okay, after he had that break down and tore apart his dorm room. He was looking out for Elliot, making sure he kept on his meds, that he wasn’t seeing things anymore. Sometimes Dad looked through Elliot’s messages, too, but it’s not like Elliot talked to anyone. Not since Angela left, and refused all his calls and texts.

Shit. What if Dad did something to Angela?

No. He shakes the thought away. He wouldn’t. He may have fired Angela, because he thought she was encouraging bad habits in Elliot, but he wouldn’t do anything to her. She was mad at Elliot, that’s why she wasn’t talking to him. But once the thought crosses his mind, he can’t make it go away.

Would his dad do something like that? He’s never seen Edward hurt anyone before, but with the money that Edward has, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to get his hands dirty himself.. Edward is ruthless when it comes to business. He’s talked to Elliot before, about the moves the company makes, and his own moves within the company. The lives he’s ruined just to get to where he is now.

If he thought that Angela was a danger to him, that she might be catching on to them, Elliot has no doubt he would do anything to keep her quiet.

He pulls out his phone, sweaty fingers fumbling on the screen, typing a message to Angela.

_Are you okay? This is important_

He stares down at the message as it sits in its little bubble, waiting for the checkmark to appear. His fingers are white around the case.

There’s nothing. No indication that it’s been read. No reply.

He swipes the messages away, opening his browser, fingers flying over the keyboard. Finally checking the social media websites he’d been avoiding. Angela’s Facebook is first, and he finds that her last post was the same month she stopped talking to him. He switches over to Twitter, and her profile is equally dead, the latest post made well before she began ignoring his texts and calls. The last place he checks is her Instagram, and to his alarm, her profile is gone entirely. She would have had to delete that herself, but why? It was the one she used most, to post pictures of her ballet class and her daily life, always feeling like she had to prove to others that she was ahead in life. She wouldn’t have deleted that. She wouldn’t.

Elliot puts his head in his hands, breathes quick and ragged. Did Edward do something to her, to make sure she wouldn’t talk to Elliot again? Would he hurt her? No, she could have turned off the read message function. She may have abandoned her social medias, it’s not completely unlikely. She might be purposefully ignoring him.

Ignoring him for a year, though? She liked being right, and she would have worried about Elliot eventually. None of this adds up.

He looks at his phone again, flicking to his dad’s messages. Types out a sentence, deletes it, types out another, and deletes that too. He puts his head in his hands again, trying not to panic, and failing.

His dad knows his every move. He probably already knows about the meeting. Maybe he even set it up. Was Edward Mr. Robot? Could he have sent some kind of message to Tyrell, to test Elliot? Was that what this was, to find the potential flaw in his program before it ever gets executed? To make sure Elliot will run as designed?

Is that all he is to Edward? A piece of programming, something Edward’s carefully coded and is testing to make sure it won’t break when the time comes. He may have passed the test, but he feels like he’s still breaking under the pressure of a process he wasn’t built to handle. His fingers tremble at his temples

The scales have fallen from his eyes. Everything Dad has done, that seemed so normal, or fine, or justifiable, is suddenly sickening. Firing Angela to destroy her relationship with him. It’s the same thing he did to Darlene. Taking Elliot and not her in the divorce, driving a wedge between her and Elliot, so that she blamed her brother for not fighting for her. And he hadn’t fought for her, or for Angela either.

He hadn’t fought this job, or the apartment, or the E Phone he’s holding. A gift from his dad when they’d gotten the apartment, but now he’s less sure it was a gift and more sure it was a leash. He doesn’t fight the lunches or dinners, lets his dad pick every meal because, what, it’s _easier?_ He’s been sleepwalking through life. He doesn’t even fight when Dad takes him to bed—

He hunches over on the seat, staring down at the phone in his hands. Another thing he didn’t fight. Undoubtedly bugged. Edward is listening, watching, he knows what Elliot’s doing at all times. Always knows where he is, always knows what he’s done each day. How could Elliot not see that? More importantly, why didn’t he fucking _care?_

He nearly throws the phone to the floor, ready to smash it to pieces with his heel, but—no, he needs it as evidence, he needs to know he’s not crazy. Because he’s not, he knows he’s not, he can’t be. He darts his head at the man who was looking at him, and when Elliot meets his eyes again, the man looks away quickly, fear flashing across his face.

He’s being watched. By Tyrell? Someone else? Not Edward, because he’s holding his dad’s means of spying right in his hands.

The train slows to a stop. Elliot is at the doors almost before he realizes it, and the moment they open he slips through and weaves through the crowd. His head rings, drowning out the noise of the crowd, dizzying in its intensity. He climbs the stars to the streetside quickly, but out in the relatively-fresher air, he feels no better. There are too many people out, and it’s growing dark. He looks around for anyone watching him. Looks behind him to make sure the man from the train isn’t following.

He’s not alone. He knows there are eyes on him. Why wasn’t he paying attention before?

He walks slowly down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction of his apartment, for almost three blocks. Then a sharp turn into a dirty alley, and he breaks into a sprint to the other end, nearly tossing a couple onto the ground when he bursts from the darkness. He does that several times, looking over his shoulder for patterns in cars or people. Not until he feels like he’s eluded anyone who may be following him does he start in the general direction of his apartment, and even then, the hair on the back of his neck raises with the feeling of eyes.

The doorman greets him by name, holding the door open, and it unsettles him more than it usually does. Is he keeping tabs on Elliot too? He slips by without a word, jamming his finger into the up button at the bank of elevators. It takes far too long for one to arrive, and he rocks from heel to heel, trying not to scream. He’s halfway to abandoning the elevators and taking the stairs instead when it _dings_ and the doors finally slide open. He hops in, jamming the close door button.

Edward won’t be home yet. Part of him thinks—in that shrewd voice that sounds like his dad—he can’t win through confrontation. He needs to get some essentials and get the hell out of here before Edward gets back. It’s not safe here, his dad is watching him, he’ll know what Elliot is up to.

His footsteps are nearly silent on the plush carpet of the hallway when he exits the elevator. Their apartment is one of only a few on the top floor of their building, and Edward had practically gifted it to Elliot, never giving him a chance to refuse. But Elliot hadn’t really wanted to refuse. It had barely crossed his mind, like a faint thought in the back of his head he couldn’t quite grasp.

He’s been staring at a screensaver for years and thinking it was the only part of the system there was to see.

His key scratches against the lock, and it takes him several attempts before he finally gets it home, and the knob twists open. He kicks the door shut behind him, taking several steps into the dark, open sitting room. The place is done in a cozy style. The left wall made of brick, with an electric fireplace set into it, the brown leather sofas worn and comfortable, a dark oak coffee table stacked with a few books and dvds. The wall across from him is floor to ceiling windows. To the right is the kitchen, and beyond that their bedrooms. Or bedroom. One certainly doesn’t see much use.

The city lights shine in through the windows, and Elliot reaches for a lamp, flicking it on, casting the sitting room in a soft, yellow glow. He swings his bag off his shoulder, setting it on the couch cushion and looking around. He’s sweating like crazy and he doesn’t even know where to start. Whether he wants to tear the place apart or just grab some clothes and get out.

A soft sound, like an exhale, is Elliot’s only warning before arms wrap around him from behind.

“There you are,” a voice husks at his ear.

Elliot jerks away, throwing his arms out and tossing the grip off. “Don’t touch me!”

“Whoa, whoa, hey, Elliot, it’s me.” Edward stands there, between the couch and coffee table, still in his suit, looking surprised. “You okay?”

His breathing is ragged, voice strained. “You— Why are you here?” Edward isn’t supposed to be home for several hours. He wasn’t supposed to be here yet.

“I wanted to surprise you, kiddo,” Edward says, cocking an eyebrow. “Client had a family emergency, so I got to come home early. Thought we could still celebrate, but you weren’t here. Is everything alright? You look a little shaken.” He reaches for Elliot’s shoulder, but Elliot steps back quickly, crossing his arms.

“Don’t—!” His fingers squeeze his arms with bruising force, as if to contain the explosive concoction of feelings swimming around inside.

“Elliot. Hey, what’s the matter?” Genuine concern softens the lines in his dad’s face. “Come on, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Elliot runs a hand through his hair, knocking the hood off his head. He moves, pacing to the window, turning around and pacing to the fireplace. He’s jittery, his thoughts scattered, but he latches on to the first one, the first burning question. “What did you do to Angela?”

“Angela?” Edward shakes his head, eyes narrowed, confused. “What-?”

“Don’t lie to me! Did you hurt her?” His voice grows beyond his control. “She’s stopped talking to me. Stopped posting to social media. It’s not like her. What did you do!”

“Whoa, slow your roll, kiddo, I didn’t do anything,” Edward says, raising his hands in a calming motion. “You know what happened to Angela. She was fired, you two had a falling out over it.”

Elliot’s pacing doesn’t slow. If anything, he’s more agitated that Dad won’t just admit it. “I know what you did. I know you got her fired, so I would be alone!” He points at his dad, then withdraws his hand just as quickly, as if Edward might reach out and grab him. “I know you did it! Just fucking tell me if you hurt her.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then where is she!” Elliot shouts, hands curled at his sides in fists.

“You know where she is! She moved back home with her father, she’s fine. Just taking a break. You know this, we’ve talked about this.”

“No. No, you’re lying. You never said that.”

Edward takes a deep breath, and it comes out in a long sigh. “You’re forgetting things again, aren’t you?” The look on his face is one of pure sadness. It’s almost enough to make Elliot drop his guard. “Elliot, come here, sit down, you’re not thinking straight.”

But he’s not so easily fooled. The partition between the contained system Edward has been keeping him in, and the reality just outside, has finally been cracked. This is just another manipulation tactic, and he wants to shove the man against a wall and scream.

“Oh, I’m thinking straight. I’m _thinking_ for the first time in _years!_ ” He scrubs his hands over his face, heart pounding so hard he can barely breath. His ears are ringing and he paces back to the window, back to the fireplace. “You got this place so I wouldn’t leave. You pushed Darlene and Angela away cause you knew they’d be able to see through you. You’re trapping me!” He’s panting by the end, and he doesn’t stop moving, fireplace, window, fireplace, window.

“Elliot. Have you been taking your meds?”

His meds? Did he take his meds? He slows to a stop, remembering this morning, the promises Dad had made about what they would do tonight, the plans. Had he been swept up in the moment and forgotten? He doesn’t remember taking them.

“You know how you get,” Edward sighs, disappointment plain on his face. He reaches into his pocket, for the small plastic container Elliot knows he keeps on him, for emergencies. Elliot’s never had to use it before. Elliot stumbles back as Edward approaches.

“No! Don’t touch me!”

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“I don’t want to take them!”

His dad grabs him, and Elliot tries to slap his hands away. The back of his knees hit the corner of the couch, and he stumbles, losing his balance. Edward goes down with him, and Elliot’s head barely misses the edge of the coffee table. Instead, it hits the ground. His vision flashes white as pain that slices through his skull. Edward is on top of him, climbing up to straddle his stomach, and he hears the rattle of pills in plastic.

“Stop…” he groans, trying to sit up. His head spins and the weight on him squeezes his breath out.

“I need you to take these, Elliot, it’s for your own good,” Edward says above him, and Elliot feels a hand gripping his jaw, prying his mouth open.

He shouts at the feeling of pills dropping into his mouth, sticking to the back of his palate. Gagging, he works the muscles of his tongue, trying to push them up from the opening to his throat. Gravity isn’t on his side, and neither is the hand that clamps over Elliot’s mouth, preventing him from spitting them out. With his other hand, Edward pinches Elliot’s nostrils shut.

“You’re sick, Elliot. You’re not thinking straight. Just take your medicine, son, you’ll feel better once you do.”

His words are distant beneath the rushing panic in Elliot’s head. He grabs his Dad’s wrists, rocking from side to side, bucking his hips. His dad leans his weight down on Elliot, crushing him into the rug. Edward’s knees digging into his ribs, squeezing to keep himself from being knocked off. It’s a strange reversal of their usual poses, at night in the dark of their bedroom.  Elliot tries to seal his throat shut, keep the pills out. The capsules slip around against his tongue, but he can’t push them into his cheek without risking one going down his throat instead. It’s getting harder to breath.

He looks up at his dad, into the eyes staring down at him. They’re not cold like he expects, there’s concern there. His brows knitted as he watches Elliot to make sure he swallows. But there’s also a sharpness there. The look on his face when he used to tell Elliot not to tell anyone what they did, or they would get in serious trouble. Calculating, making sure that things were going as planned. As a kid, he hadn’t understood that look, but he finally gets it.

 _“Keeping you sedated,”_ Tyrell whispers in his ear. Not taking him to the hospital. Not calling for help. Forcing the pills down Elliot’s throat by himself. Keeping him isolated, close, and sedated.

He scratches at Edward’s wrist, feeling wetness well beneath his fingernails as he draws blood. Edward grunts, but he isn’t moved.

Darkness swims at the edge of Elliot’s vision. His head pounds from lack of oxygen. He’s either going to give into his urge to breathe and swallow them, or he’s going to pass out, and Edward will be able to make him take the pills without a fight.

He shuts his eyes, lungs burning, and tries to work the pills up from his throat. They slip, and Elliot’s throat opens as his body takes over and tries to gasp for air. He feels them sliding down even as he chokes, and Edward must see his throat moving in an involuntary swallow, because he finally lets go.

Elliot lays there, chest heaving, his lungs aching as they finally fill with air. He puts a hand over his mouth, tries to shove his fingers down his throat, but Edward is quicker, wrestling his hands away. Holding them for a few minutes, watching Elliot cough.

“Let me go.” Elliot yanks on his hands. To his surprise, Edward does. But of course, he already knows he’s won. “Get off!”

Edward rises to his feet, and then leans right back down, scooping Elliot’s phone up from where it had fallen in their tussle and tucking it into the front pocket of his shirt.

“Give me that!” Elliot sits up, reaching for his dad’s shirt, but the second he does a wave of dizziness crashes over him. The pain in the back of his head hits him all at once, a throbbing knot where he’d hit the floor. He grabs his head, grunting.

Hands grab Elliot under his arms, like he’s eight again, hauling him up against his chest. “Come on, Elli, let’s get you to bed.”

“Don’t call me that, man,” Elliot says, trying to shove away from the man, but he’s unsteady and Edward catches him easily. “Stop. Don’t—” His head is still spinning, and sudden drowsiness pulls at the switches in his brain, trying to shut them off one at a time. “What did you fucking give me?”

“Just your insomnia medicine, and your anti-psychotics, kiddo,” Edward says gently, but Elliot shakes his head.

“No-no, it’s too—” He feels so heavy already, and it’s only been a couple of minutes. This isn’t sleep medication. “You drugged me.” His voice is strained.

“No, Elliot,” Edward says with an air of infinite patience. “I just gave you your medicine.”

The strong arms around him haul him through the living room. His feet stumble and trip over each other, the back of his head radiating heat like an overclocked CPU with a broken cooling system.

He’s dragged past the dark kitchen, down the hallway, into the bedroom they share more often than not. It’s lit by the table lamp, a book open and facedown on the covers of the bed. His dad must have been in here reading, waiting for Elliot to get home. But that’s not the only thing. There are rose petals scattered across the bed and floor. A bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice on the bedside table, with two glasses nearby. A few candles, scattered across the dresser, the bookshelf, the floor, waiting to be lit.

It makes his stomach turn again. He can hardly recall the feelings he had this morning, how he’d been anticipating this. Their night together, how Dad said he wanted to celebrate Elliot’s promotion. That he was going to make Elliot feel so special. How Elliot had said that Dad already made him feel special. He could gag at the memory, but he’s too tired.

Pulling the covers back, Edward guides Elliot down to the bed. His limbs are made of limp jelly, and he flops down onto the pillow without a fight. His eyes close against his will, the pillow soft against his cheek. All the worries and paranoia are floating away.

There’s a buzzing sound, cutting through the heaviness weighing over his mind. “Look, kiddo,” Dad says, and the bright light of a phone screen is suddenly in his face. He squints, barely making out the words on the screen.

 **Angela  
**What, Elliot?

“What did I tell you, kiddo? She’s just fine.” The phone moves away, and he can see the gentle smile on Dad’s face, his sharp eyebrows softened with amused affection. He runs his hands through Elliot’s hair gently.

Some of the fear melts away. She’s fine. Of course she is. She was just mad at him. Dad wouldn’t hurt her.

He hears his dad setting it aside and moving to the end of the bed. His feet are freed, one at time, as Dad pulls off his shoes. Then he’s rolling Elliot onto his back, and there are hands on his pants, undoing the button and zip before tugging them down his legs.

“Dad…” he mumbles, voice slurring.

“I know,” Dad replies, untangling them from Elliot’s legs and letting them fall.

He doesn’t know what Dad knows, but his mind is quiet beneath the pulsing pain in the back of his head and the heaviness in his eyes. It feels like he’s just a kid again, being manhandled by his dad as Edward pulls his hoodie over his head, then undoes the buttons of his shirt and strips him of that too, and then of his sweaty white undershirt, leaving him in only his boxers. 

It shouldn’t feel good. He needs to get up, he thinks, distantly. He needs to wake up, and fight. But then the covers are lifting, and Dad is sliding onto the bed behind him. He doesn’t remember his dad undressing, but Edward’s arm encircles Elliot and pulls him back against a warm, bare chest. Soft breaths ghosts over his skin as Edward noses at his neck, kissing him lightly. His stubble itches in a way that Elliot loves.

“It’s okay, kiddo, I’ve got you.” Dad’s slides down Elliot’s stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers. There, his thumb makes soothing circles over Elliot’s sharp hipbone. “You know you’ve got to keep taking your medicine. I don’t want you to get hurt. This is for your own good.” 

Elliot says nothing—muscles lax, mouth refusing to move. His eyes focus briefly on his fingers, splayed out on the bed in front of him. The red staining his nails. Then he blinks, and he loses them. He’s sinking down into darkness rapidly, and he knows he shouldn’t be, that something’s wrong, but for some reason it doesn’t seem as urgent as it did. Not with Dad against his back, peppering his shoulder with kisses, telling him it’s all going to be okay.

Maybe Dad is right. Maybe this is okay.


End file.
